Simply Corrosive: A Series of Word Vomits
by Repsechaeus
Summary: Self-explanatory title? Indeed. Completely 6918, because I love it, and the 6918 fandom is puny and disappointing. Enjoy if you can? C: Rated T for things like swearing and Mukuro. He should have his own rating.
1. Look

**Look**

_**Mukuro x Hibari**_

Rokudo Mukuro stepped closer to the other boy and nonchalantly leaned against his ornate trident. Hibari scoffed and scanned the illusionist up and down. Mukuro's brilliant azure hair fell in soft swatches across his arrogant, angular features, and his bizarre, mismatched eyes flitted mockingly over Hibari's form. The tonfa wielder squeezed his fists tighter around his weapons.

******Hibari hated everything about this man, but most of all, Hibari ___despised_ the way Rokudo Mukuro looked at him.**

******-  
**

_((Er. Yeah. Just the midday musings of a high school student. These are all probably going to be super short (I mean, just look at the first one), and I don't know how many there'll be. Tch.))_


	2. Exquisite Horrible Misery

**Exquisite Horrible Misery**

**_Mukuro x Hibari_  
**

Weak fingers scratched helplessly against the gritty floor of the Kokuyou cinema as Mukuro landed another kick square in Hibari's gut. He disciplinary committee president merely slumped back to his previous face-down position. Rokudo crouched down beside the wrecked young man, and wrenched the boy up by his inky tousled hair with a dark chuckle that could make the toughest of men piss themselves out of sheer terror. "Come now, Hibari-kun, you're not going to fight anymore? Or perhaps you can't because I've already completely pulverized you."

Mukuro laughed again and released Hibari, whose head fell to the floor with a gut-wrenching crack. The illusionist nudged the younger boy onto his back, then slammed his foot into Hibari's ribs. The sickening crunching sound that resulted echoed mockingly about the crumbling, derelict cinema. Hibari's face contorted with the pain of endurance, yet he did not dare cry out as Mukuro ground his heavy boot into his already bruised ribs. Mukuro grinned from ear to ear with a twisted sort of giddy, wild pleasure.

While gazing with his unnerving garnet and sapphire eyes upon the prefect's pained, bloodied face, the (definitely less than sane) illusionist chuckled madly," Hibari-kun, your face of utter misery is quite exquisite. If only you'd let out your voice, which I'm sure is equally as delectable."

-

_((Inspired by a line from Rev. Jonathan Edwards' sermon 'Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.' We read it in American Lit. and the phrase, "exquisite horrible misery," made me smile.))_


	3. Morning Method

**Morning Method**

_**Mukuro gen./Kokuyou**_

Bubbles rose from the bottom of the tank in which Rokudo Mukuro was suspended. As the young man hung there wrapped in all manner of dreadful heavy chains and sinister tubes attached to various orifices, the sickening, crushing water pressed in on all sides, squeezing, suffocating.

Of course it was a massive understatement to say that Mukuro's mind often wandered back to the sunny memories of pre-Vendice life. He remembered very clearly his mornings spent lazing about in his bed at the Kokuyou infirmary. Mukuro enjoyed these memories. His mind wandered back to...

Hazy shafts of light shone through the windows, casting buttery yellow slats of dazzling sunlight across the tussled white sheets. Mukuro lay there with his eyes still closed, attempting to go back to sleep. He was unsuccessful, and his lovely (albeit bizarre) eyes fluttered open. Mukuro sat up, a pleasant smile upon his attractive lips and traces of sleep still about his eyes. The young man's normally perfectly groomed azure hair stuck out at odd angels; the tuft of hair at the crown of his head, though, had drooped and become (even more) mussed from slumber.

Mukuro rubbed his eyes and pulled back the sheets to step lightly out of bed. He would go find Ken and Chikusa who would fetch his uniform, fix his hair, and prepare what food they could scrape up. It was a bit odd to think it were possible, but Mukuro was happy then. Those Kokuyou days, the sun dancing upon his ivory skin...

Only the stale grit of the water pressed upon his now gray-tinged skin. No light shone down into the sepulchral Vendice prison – only the gruesome, eerie glow from other tanks. The weight of the thick chains seemed like nothing compared to the pressure of the freezing water, closing in, enveloping the young man in an oppressive silence that could drive a man mad.

If Mukuro was to survive, he's dwell in his memories – memories where he had to shield his eyes from the dazzling light; where he could feel the warmth of the sun's life-giving rays, or the caress of another's touch; where he could watch the clouds drift lazily about, just as he used to do.

-

_((Hurrhurr. Orifices.))_

_._

_._

_.  
_

_((And watch as the Author's Note completely ruins the tone of the fic. Wow.))  
_


	4. The Colour of Insanity

**The Colour of Insanity**

_**Mukuro x Hibari, kinda, but not really**_

Amongst other things such as bloody revenge and ripping at the man's flesh as if it were merely a piece of meat, Hibari though of Mukuro's eyes as he was beaten senselessly by the other boy in the dingy Kokuyou cinema. It certainly was an odd thing to think about while his face was again pushed against the gritty cement floor, but Hibari couldn't help it.

'No one could help it, probably,' the prefect though as another couple of ribs cracked with a stomach-churning crunch. The bright sapphire blue and blood red of Mukuro's eyes was captivating. Hibari wondered just how old his assailant was, as his eyes sparkled curiously with what Hibari mused to be lifetimes of cruelty (or it could have just been utter glee at Hibari's situation).

'They're just so _strange._' The Namimori disciplinary committee chairman had never seen anything quite like those eyes before. Hibari had no strength left, yet he tried as hard as he could to maintain eye contact with the undoubtedly barking mad illusionist.

Mukuro's eyes were certainly otherworldly, but were also startlingly beautiful. The left eye seemed almost innocent with its shocking blue intensity. Hibari wondered if angels had eyes that colour. Mukuro's right eye, on the other hand, was so utterly piercing, it took the black-haired prefect's breath away (or that could have been the illusionist's hand on his throat).

That eye, Mukuro's right; it was the exact shade of fresh blood. Hibari pondered that the only way it could be so intensely red is that it stole the shade from Hibari's blood itself as Mukuro gazed upon the tonfa-wielder's bruised face in satisfaction. Hibari maintained eye contact. Nothing could have torn the boy away from staring back at that jewel-like eye that seemed to almost cackle, Hibari thought.

Mukuro dropped Hibari from where he had been holding the prefect against the wall. Hibari crumpled to the ground, but raised his head, his inky, tousled locks partially obscuring his face. The illusionist crouched before the disciplinary committee president and gently (sickeningly so) tucked a strand of the other boy's hair behind his ear. Hibari looked Mukuro in the eye. Mukuro smiled. His eyes twinkled with pleasure at the prospect of shedding more of Hibari's blood. Hibari maintained eye contact.

-

_((Hrm. I dunno about this one. It's okay, I guess. It was inspired by a line in "The Devil's Dance Floor" by Flogging Molly: "The colour of her eyes were the colour of insanity." Indeed.))_


	5. Hold

**Hold**

**_Mukuro x Hibari_  
**

Mukuro's lithe body may have been suspended in a state of half-death, but his mind was very much alive. Memories of his past lives (the good ones) and his sunny days with Ken and Chikusa proved a lovely place to forget the fact that he was incapacitated, but the illusionist found that a particular set of memories forced his current condition to the forefront of his mind in a rather demanding way. Oddly enough, Mukuro dud not avoid these memories. He replayed his encounter with Hibari Kyouya again and again in the theatre of his mind, each time reinforcing his reason to _get out._

The prideful way Hibari carried himself as he stalked about downtown Namimori, the sound of his body landing gracelessly against the gritty cement, the ferocious look in the boy's steely eyes as Mukuro tugged cruelly on his tousled locks... The odd-eyed illusionist couldn't help but be captivated by the grumpy disciplinarian. Mukuro didn't bother to suppress a mental chuckle at Hibari's expense. His fierce independence, his unquenchable gluttony for carnage, his utter loathing for Mukuro... Hibari Kyouya was just too amusing. Something about that boy made Mukuro lust, almost painfully so, for a world beyond his prison, for the sunlight, for a chance to be _near _him.

Though in reality, the azure-haired teen had hardly been walking through the sunny streets of Namimori, not even the Vendice prison could have kept him from checking on the prefect. _"It's been a long time. You've become stronger again, it seems." _Just a quick comment, then he was gone before the black-haired boy could turn his head. Mukuro needed to do that. It was small, but necessary. Though it was absurd to think that Hibari had forgotten his ordeal with Mukuro (and Mukuro had worked very hard to make sure Hibari _couldn't_ forget), Mukuro just needed to _remind_ him, to just bring it all back to the center of his thoughts. Mukuro was sure he'd wither if the boy he found so mesmerizing had discarded all memories of his face, his laughter, his presence. Even in his miserable situation, the Must Guardian could not chase away the idea that Hibari _must not forget._

Mukuro would do anything to keep Hibari holding on, to keep Hibari's obsession with defeating him from fading at all. Mukuro just needed him to hold on until he could get out of this godforsaken prison, until he could see the object of his forlorn longing in person. He needed Hibari to hold on. He needed Hibari to _keep holding on to him._

-

_((A phrase in a fic I read inspired this one. It didn't quite turn out like I wanted it to. In my mind, Mukuro has this rather sad, forlorn desire for Hibari , and I don't think I conveyed that well. I always manage to make Mukuro all creepy and like 'hrmhurrhrm I like it when you bleed hrmhurrhurr', espectially when I don't want him that way. _; Eh, oh well. At least I used the word 'lust.' Hurr hurr Lust.))_


	6. Hot Hot Heat

**Hot Hot Heat**

**_TYL! Mukuro and Hibari randomness_  
**

It was hot. Sweltering hot. _Oppressively _hot. Hibari Kyouya damned the fact that he was wearing a stiff suit. But, as if the situation weren't bad enough, it was freakishly hot, he was wearing a suit, _and _he was sitting at a small wrought-iron table in godforsaken Nevada, drinking coffee with Rokudo Mukuro. Hibari wondered, with a roll of his steely eyes, how he had ended up in such an unfavourable place, with such an unpleasant person. Mukuro (who was also in a suit, though he seemed completely unaffected by the horrid heat) appeared to be determined to drive all personal thoughts out of the Cloud Guardian's head with his unending prattle about Italian pasta, or whatever the fuck sort of drivel he was spewing _now._

As per the usual for the permanently grumpy man, Hibari was becoming progressively more frustrated with his situation – mostly, that he was having a conversation with bloody fucking Mukuro. "Y'know, this can't rightly be considered a conversation. You're not contributing anything at all. It's like talking to a wall. A _surly_ wall," the illusionist quipped in his distinctively glib tone. He flashed a blithe smile towards Hibari, who merely grunted and turned towards the open end of the café patio to peer at the brilliant streaks of crimson, orange, and violet as the sun set over the Nevada desert (at least the sunset was pretty, though it didn't help the fact that Hibari's neck was already sticky with sweat). Mukuro simply chuckled and continued his epic tale of noodles, knowing full well, and not caring one bit that his words fell upon deaf ears.

-

_((Not much to say about this one, other than it's my first venture into the TYL thing, and this is HELLA random. It's okay, I guess, but I really do like Mukuro when he talks about noodles and surly walls. Also, Hot Hot Heat is one of the greatest bands ever.))_


	7. Stab My Back

**Stab My Back, It's Better if I Bleed for You**

**_Mukuro x Hibari_  
**

Mukuro couldn't help but feel that with every impact of Hibari's tonfa against the cranium of another mindless herbivore, another blade was brutally shoved into Mukuro's back. It was betrayal, Hibari's straying from his hatred for Mukuro. The azure-haired illusionist felt that the only one his Kyouya ought to be beating up (or at least trying to) was _him_. _He_ was Hibari's one and only, not the weaklings the tonfa-wielder mauled every day!

Of course, all that jealousy and frustration would be swept away when Hibari would spit out Mukuro's name like the venom it was to the black-haired teen. The gruff way Hibari swore he'd bite Mukuro to death made his head melt and made him forget his Kyouya's daily betrayal.

-

_((To me, this is the ideal length for a word vomit [forgive the crude term]. I need to start trying to stick to this length, or thereabouts. Anyways, this is alright. I was getting antsy that I hadn't written anything in a while, so I whipped this up. It's decent. C:))_


	8. Luxury

**Luxury**

**_Hibari gen._  
**

Hibari could be described as a hedonist, though such pleasures as the Roman emperors enjoyed like luxurious food and drink and garb were far below him. Hibari Kyouya preferred indulgence of a different sort; a sort wherein Hibari's true pleasure lied.

Another spray of brilliant crimson blood decorated the carnivore's fine face. Hibari reveled in the warmth of the substance as it slowly dripped downwards, then fell in plump droplets from the boy's jawline down onto the limp body of the unfortunate soul who dared challenge Hibari.

The was true luxury. Nothing compared to the cozy, warm, _oh so warm_ slickness of red, red, _so damn red _blood smeared across his flesh. Hibari wouldn't trade this intense, almost sexually fulfilling feeling for all of the fine, decadent food and clothes in the world. As far as Hibari Kyouya was concerned, indulgence in worldly pleasure meant his hair tousled, his skin slicked with blood, and a predatory curl of his lip.

-

_((I started this not knowing where it would take me, and it ended up leaving me with a bloody, grinning Hibari. Very scary.))_


	9. Secrets, Secrets

**Secrets, Secrets Are No Fun**

**_Mukuro Gen._  
**

Everyone has a secret, a weighty, dark passenger that snakes its black tendrils around the heart and mind. Such creatures that lie in the shadowy murk of sentience prey upon insecurities as a beast would feast upon the pure flesh of a newborn lamb. As suck, one is certainly loathe to admit their secret, to bring to light their own personal monster.

Upon pondering this particular phenomenon of the human mind, I was not at all shocked to be led down the familiar train of thought that landed me right upon the lap of the unsettling truth that inhabited the dark, irrational recesses of my _own_ mind. Of course, I'd cut out my own devilish tongue before I'd give that secret a despicable form through words tumbling so calamitously from my lips. And yet, my own mind could not help but entice my truth into dancing about the forefront of my deceitful consciousness.

My dark passenger, my all-consuming creature of shadow and insecurity, is weakness. Not that I would become weak, but rather the fact that I _am_ weak. My outward appearance of infallible strength and cunning is so flawless, sometimes even I believe it, yet my perturbing truth always chooses to rear its grotesque visage on such occasions. I've been harboring this ship of utmost darkness for a long while. Even I cannot recall how many lifetimes, exactly. Again and again, I've been thrown into the sulfurous depths of Hell, only to be pulled out again to live, and find that my old friend, hidden weakness, is once again placed upon my shoulders to leech away my peace of mind like some great, hideous lamprey.

And I'll be damned (as if I'm not damned already) if anyone sees the man behind all of the possession, the hell, the hungry ghosts – the man who fears that someone will see through all his illusions, the man whose soul must inhabit the body of another because he is _trapped_. I shall continue to shove my pathetic secret back into the irrational, repulsive corners of my mind from whence it came, so it may not flit mockingly amongst my frequent thoughts. I shall continue to masquerade as the confident, enigmatic villain that is gazed upon with admiration and terror, and need not worry about the red-eyed demon that is his secret, for he has none.

-

_((I did this over two days after my graduation testing. Fun. Dude, the teacher read a bit of this over my shoulder and said it was Poe-like. And I looked at her and was like, "lady, what are you smoking? It must be some good shit if you're giving me false flatteries like that." And she didn't like that very much. But screw her! She looked like a ferret! Anyways, I like this. I'm proud of it.))_


End file.
